London Bridge's Falling Down
by La Flamingo
Summary: The aftermath of revolution is not nearly as one might expect. All of V's puppets are learning this the hard way.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters from _V for Vendetta_, whether I am discussing the novel or the movie. This is something of my own, but "V" is not.

Freedom.

Two syllables.

But something much more.

It's odd, really. Walking past Victoria Street and looking at the rubble. At one point, it was Big Ben and Parliament. But now? Just rubble. Metal and stone strewn about haphazardly. I have to admit it has quite an effect on the people around.

Many ask themselves. How did it happen?

What happened?

Others are trying to understand that we are free.

First, there is the shock. Shock, in a place like London, usually only lasts .5 days with the media sharks, but without the Sutler's puppets, the shock is lasting weeks. Months. This shock is anything but ordinary. This shock is something that is taking everyone to comprehend.

Last week they started to find the camps. Party members had known about them, or course, but no one really _knew _about them per se. But now, we're finding out. The files? They weren't deleted, or, at least, not all of them. Now everything is being found. What was lost? Never really was.

We have on our hands a Holocaust like situation, except not nearly to that extreme.

Thank God.

That doesn't mean, though, that it isn't disgusting--because it is. But we have something that no one living has ever experienced before. Before Reclaimation, I remember reading about it—the Holocaust, that is—and remembering having the phrase "We must never let this happen again" hammered into my head over and over until it became almost this horrific mantra.

Funny, isn't it, how history repeats itself?

Yes.

Very funny.

Except that now I'm finding out the life of people before they were blacked-bagged. Before they became one of _them_.

Can you guess who I'm talking about?

Yes.

V.


	2. Insomnia

**Disclaimer: Ah, always a disclaimer. Right: I don't own V for Vendetta. Alan Moore and his associates do...not to mention Warner Brothers Entertainment. Me? I'm just a loser writing fanfiction. That is all.  
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"_In sooth, I know not why I am sad:  
It wearies me; you say it wearies you:  
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,  
What stuff't is made of, whereof it is born,  
I am to learn."_

The Merchant of Venice, Act 1:1

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"Authorities made a gruesome discovery today twenty miles west of Norwich. The bodies of over thirty men and women, all presumed dead or missing as of November of 2030, have been found in mass graves outside the once-infamous Green Willow rehabilitation and detention centre. It is believed that at one point the victims were prisoners within Green Willow. Their identities are at this time unknown.

"In other news, discussion of rebuilding the Parliament building was debated today in the—"

Click.

The room abruptly became silent. I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes, bringing up two hands to massage my temples. A headache was looming in the back of my skull, throbbing quietly with a warning of what was yet to come. I tried to ignore it. Unless I took an aspirin soon, I had a feeling that the pain was only going to grow worse.

But it had been like that for the past five months. Always around the late evening, a gnawing feeling started at my back and chewed its way up to my brain, burrowing in for what seemed like a permanent stay.

I know why they happen, of course…Never the less the pain is no release. It is, if anything, a restriction upon my life.

Abruptly the loud gong of a grandfather clock pulled me out of my reverie. Without opening my eyes, I counted along with it, groaning with frustration as the realization came that is was three in the morning. This was the second night with no sleep; anymore and I'd collapse from exhaustion. It was time to try to sleep.

I finally opened my eyes, though with exaggerated slowness, and stared dully at the television, lids flickering and drooping as they fought to stay open.

There was nothing on to watch. Though BBC was on all hours of the day, it mainly consisted of garbage. Granted, no longer was BTN in service—nevertheless the news was rarely good. But what is one to expect? The country had just undergone a revolution, for God's sake.

And yet…

It seemed like the span of a blink. One minute I was staring dully at nothing, fight to keep away sleep. The next minute the clock barked once again, heralding the arrival of four a.m.

Blink.

Time moves too fast for any to really comprehend it. This was no special situation.

A small vibrating noise came from my right. Slowly I swiveled my head to glance at the mobile lying on the cushion next to me. A moment's pause, before the phone was picked up and turned on. Without speaking, I brought it to my ear.

"Evey," a sleep-weary voice said, sounding just as tired as I felt, "got to sleep."

Beat of silence.

"Good morning," I said, taking the greeting literally before punching 'end'.

Nothingness once again impounded the area. I rose off the couch, stared one more time at my phone then staggered around the furniture, oblivious to the homey grandeur that was now my home. I had taken what V had promised me to the heart. For some reason, to turn it down seemed if not stupid an insult to his memory. He had given me my freedom and self. This seemed like the least I could have done.

The bedroom was still the same—precarious rows of books herded about the doorway, the bed, the walls. Some climbed up the sides of the room, reaching nearly the ceiling and then on, oblivion. Others seemed to be clinging to one another by just a sun-faded page, barely hanging on. Always I wondered how V got the books the way they are, and then I decided that ultimately it was irrelevant.

Glancing over at the nightstand, the lamp dimly illuminating the room, I spied _Macbeth_ lying spineless and dog-eared. It had seen better days, and my sudden and voracious reading of Shakespeare only seemed to make its condition worse.

"_Go to sleep."_

The words rang through my head, quietly reminding me what I really needed to do. I had to hand it to the man. Though Finch, a detective and an (ex)-member of the Party and I had been on opposite sides of society, myself being carted around with a terrorist and he the one who was chasing the terrorist, one thing or another had brought us together and created an awkward friendship. We both never slept, though it seemed that I was winning the horrible contest at the moment, and we both had seen V. Granted, Finch knew more than I about the past of the man who had completely changed my life than I did, but the fact existed we had both been there when V's body, wreathed with roses, fertilizer, and a dream, slowly started it's journey on the Underground to Parliament. We had both heard Tchaikovsky's most famous overture blaring over loudspeakers everywhere. From then on, we became careful friends.

Don't think too deeply into what I just said—Finch is merely my watchdog and I his.

Staggering over to the bed and wearily pulling back the already rumpled covers, I fell backwards onto a pillow, burrowing down like a hedgehog or something and curling up. Suddenly it occurred to me how tired I was, and within minutes, I was out.

I didn't even bother to turn off the light.

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"Jesus, Effie. You look like shit."

Blinking at Christine beneath my cap, eyes expressionless, I slowly took a sip of my tea. For a moment we both evaluated each other before she raised her hands in exasperation and shook her head.

"It's almost pointless for me to try to tell you anything, isn't it?"

Another sip of tea. Christine grunted at my silent reply before leaning forward across the table and motioned me forward like she had a secret to tell.

"Do you remember Evey Hammond?"

A nod from me.

"The one who got black-bagged a year and a half ago?"

I sipped louder this time to make a point.

"They found her body."

I had to try very hard not to spit out the tea I just had taken a drink from, surprised at my name—or, the old name I had had—being spoken of to the extent that I was dead. If we wanted to be frank with ourselves, I was. Evey Hammond died in the January of last year after being found in a house that contained the Koran. Everyone else knew me as Effie Hasbrook. It wasn't the most original name, but no one really seemed to notice.

Christine noticed me lurching in surprise and grinned, mismatched teeth glittering mischievously.

"Shocking, isn't it?"

I nodded quickly, putting a napkin under the little tea splotches I had just made on the table.

"You know," she said, cocking her head and watching me carefully, "if you had more hair you would look a lot like her."

I raised an eyebrow in reply.

"No, I'm serious. I mean, you have the same nose, same voice…but your eyes are different. You look a lot more determined then Evey. She let everyone walk all over her."

Clearing my throat, I spoke quietly.

"Were you good friends with her?"

Christine gave me a surprised look at me actually talking before forcing a Parisian-like shrug. "Nah. But she had worked at the BTN with me. Mainly moved boxes around and whatnot. She was the random tasks division of our work force."

"And then?"

Christine once again shrugged, and her gaze grew stony. "What else? She was black-bagged along with Dietrich in January, never to be seen again. They had killed him on the spot for having the Qur'an in his house…I'm not quite sure what happened to Evey, though."

Inwardly I felt a twinge of sadness at Dietrich's name. He had taken me under his wing, and in the both we died.

Or, at least, Dietrich and Evey died. I'm not quite sure about Effie, though.

"Effie?"

I shook my head, trying to banish the demons. "Yeah?"

"You alright? You look frazzled." Christine eyed me carefully, watching for a reaction.

I gave her a forced but polite smile. "I'm fine," I said gently. "Just a little tired."

"Hmm," she said, reaching for her cup, one blond eyebrow raised above mottled hazel eyes, "you look a lot more than 'just tired.'"

I shot the woman an annoyed look.

I had known Christine when I had worked at BTN, but obviously, we were in a different world now.

For a week after V had blown up the Parliament widespread anarchy had ensued. Theft, arson, murder…Like all countries after a revolution, England had been in chaos. But suddenly, just as fast as it had started, the riots and anarchy ended. We all got a hold of ourselves and tried to piece the country back together. I had ran into Christine as she was charging her way down the sidewalk north of Regent's park one day after November 5th and the beginning of the pandemonium. We had both apologized profusely, but then abruptly got into a conversation and then Christine had invited me over for a cup of tea, though I believe now that she had done that just to get us both away from the rioting not too far in any direction. From then on, we were friends. Besides Finch, she really was the only friend I had.

Christine put one hand up to signal defeat at me shooting her a look of death before leaning back and putting her tea down on the table. Christine glanced around for a moment, then looked down at the small gold watch on her wrist. Her small form abruptly stiffened and she shot up from the table.

"Oh shit!"

I looked at her expectantly.

"I'm late for work." Christine explained, pulling on her overcoat and wrapping a scarf around her neck. I blinked once to emphasis I had not been notified of this change in her life, and as Christine pulled on her gloves she elaborated. "I just got hired to work as a writer for BBC."

A gentle smile from me.

"I know," she continued, beaming. "It's a great improvement for me..." Christine glanced once again at her watch and muttered under her breath before glancing at me and throwing some pounds on the table. "I'm so sorry for leaving like this, Effie, but I'm sure you understand. Bye!"

And just as fast as she had come, Christine was gone, moving quickly out of the café and onto the sidewalk. I watched her heavily padded form weave its way through traffic and then she was gone. In her absence, quiet conversation from nearby tables began to filter my way.

"And so I says to him—"

"Do you really think they're going to rebuild Parliament?"

"We just found the papers. Anna didn't stand a chance."

"This is great tea, James. Why didn't you tell me about this place before?"

"Well, I—"

Within seconds another headache began to gnaw impatiently at my skull. Wincing, I lowered my eyes to the pounds lying forlornly on the table and then at my own watch and sighed.

It was about time for me to go, anyway. I had a shift starting at 12. Where was it?

A bookstore, believe it or not. Not that Sutler was gone, millions of once outlawed novels began to flood in. England was ravenous for knowledge, for the things they had lost for more than twenty years. And they got them. Bookstores rushed in and out with Eulicid's _The Elements_, Shakespeare, _Mein Kampf,_ _War and Peace_, and thousands of others. It was incredible.

Though I was just happy that I had a job where I wasn't watched every moment of my life. What was in a bookstore was truth—or something pertaining to it. For some reason, it had brought me closer to my father. He had been a writer, and though my memory about childhood was often very foggy I remember him reading to me. To be able to have the gift myself made me feel like he was still there.

Though Finch had told me he had died in camp, just like almost everyone else.

_Time to leave._

I sighed deeply, then began to bundle my coat on. Christine had paid for the tip—there wasn't a lot I really had to do.

Slowly I turned my eye towards the outside and noted the ever-darkening clouds. Another day of gloom. But who was to say it wasn't for the best?

Who knew. I began to walk my way outside and within minutes was swept up into the crowd.

Just another anonymous piece of flotsam in the sea.


	3. Working Overtime

**Disclaimer: I don't own "V for Vendetta" or any of the characters affiliated with the graphic novel (okay...comic) or the movie. Thank you. **  
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_"But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, in that conscious burying onesleve alive for grief in the underworld for forty years, in that acutely recognized and yet partly doubtful hoplessness of one's position, in that hell of...resolution determined for ever and repented of again a minute later--that the savour of...which I have spoken lies." _

"Notes from the Underground", Fyodor Dostoevsky.  
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"How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for…um, one-nine-eight-four."

"You mean 1984? As in, the book?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, follow me." I motioned the small, beady-eyed old woman, face burrowed in a scarf, forward. She looked my way and out the door nervously, a gesture that made it clear she thought she was going to get caught by Fingermen. Clearly she had been one of the abused. Maybe it hadn't occurred to her that they were gone.

But it was like that with a lot of people. They would come in, back hunched against the door, gaze shift, and nervously whisper the name of a book, as though it was a secret that any utterance of such would get them black bagged. When I would gently assure them nothing was wrong, the feeling waned…somewhat. But that was the side-effect of violence: fear. Paranoia, distrust. It was what had been bred into the children, and beaten into the parents. It was the generation.

"Here we are," I said, sliding a finger gently along the spines of novels of the shelf until I came across the small, leather-bound Orwell classic. Worming a forefinger into the narrow aperture above it, I finally picked _1984_ out and passed it behind me. A small, liver-spotted hand cautiously took it from me and a quietly, almost inaudible "thank you" was heard.

I turned around with "you're welcome" on my lips, but the woman was gone, vanished somewhere amongst the shelves upon shelves of once-banned literature. For a brief moment I felt an old fear grip at me, but then just as fast as it had been, the emotion was gone.

The memory behind it, however, was far from disappearance. Far, far from it.

_Darkness. On all sides. Can't think straight. Don't know where I am, what just happe—_

_Oh god._

_Black bagged, black bagged, black ba—_

_Light. It's too bright. Can't adjust, can't think straight...Can't do bloody anything._

_"Evey Hammond, you've been charged with treason and accessory to murder, the punishment for which, is death—"_

_Shaking now, uncontrollably. Body's going into fits._

_Oh god. What have I done?_

_"—Unless you give us the whereabouts and identity of codename 'V'—"_

_But—I don't know who _he_ is. I don't know _where _he is. Don't you understand that?_

_Lie. Save yourself. For God's sake, who is more important, you or him?_

_"—You can go back to your life, Evey Hammond."_

_Cold. Freezing. Shaking._

_Who is more important? You, or him?_

_You, or him?_

…Him.

_"Process her."_

"Effie?"

_Not here, not here..._

"Effie?"

I blinked, opening my eyes fully to realize I was shaking as though from a seizure. Not more than two meters away stood Tim, my boss, eyeing me worriedly.

One more blink, but slower, to allow thought process. There was an awkward pause before I tried to smile.

"Yes?"

Tim, with old worried blue eyes and a bald head, looked at me carefully.

"You alright, love? You were shaking like you had the fits."

Another smile from me. "I'm fine, Tim."

Tim, short, ancient dwarf that he was, glowered.

"Really," I repeated, "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh," he aid slowly, looking me up and down. "Tell you what," Tim glanced at his wristwatch quickly, before looking back at me, "Your shift is up in ten minutes." As I opened my mouth to protest, he continued, "How about you call it a day now?" My facial expression of protest slowly melted to one of irritation and helplessness. The old man sighed.

"Effie, let's be honest with ourselves. You're not in shape to work right now. You look like shit, and quite frankly, though you have a wonderful personality and are easy on the eyes, I think you're scaring the customers. Go home, Effie," Tim said gently. "Sleep. You look worse than me and I've been around a helluva lot longer than you."

I hunched my shoulders, ready to get defensive, then finally took into stock what my boss was telling me.

And he was right.

Deep intake of breath.

"Okay."

Tim looked relieved. "Good girl, Effie. Good girl."

I ignored the dog-like tones heard behind the praise and watched as the old man gave an inclination of his head, signaling he was going to go before he did so, waddling past on of the shelves and disappearing from my sight.

_You or him?_

_You or—_

Jerked back to now-time as a man shoved his way past me, apologizing gruffly as he gravitated towards one particularly mind-numbing section of mathematics and the meaning of life, I said nothing, instead inching away from the various backs of books and worming out into the open. I moved back towards the "Employees Only" door and pushed through. Within minutes the umbrella was in hand, and, given another minute, I was gone, out the old glass door and into the rain. I blinked momentarily as the cold swept about me, small droplets of rain splashing my face. A quick memory shot by--

_"God is in the rain..."_

--And then it was gone.

My way back to the Shadow Gallery quite frequently went past Victoria Street and thus Parliament. Eight weeks it had been—eight and the rubble still sat there—gray, dirty and crumbling. I used to, like everyone else, stop right on the curb and stare at it over the iron-link fence, wondering what the entire disastrous sight meant to me, whether or not I should be afraid for the future, realizing, then, that had no control of the situation. I could only watch.

The thought terrified me…

…At first.

But, like before, I then realized that that was how it was.

The rain was coming down in floods, battering at the thin nylon material that was the umbrella, drowning out any other sound possible to the extent that all I heard was a low drumming. I continued to stand at the curb, ignoring the crowds pushing at and against me and instead allowing my eyes to rove the rubble. I had a feeling they would rebuild it—somewhat.

This new government, this youngling, was still trying to find itself, still trying to grasp what it was supposed to do. Hurriedly conjured two weeks after November 5th by various counties in England, each area voting their own forward, the administration was desperately yanking itself together, pulling on some strings that didn't even have a connection an jerking on others that were knotted horrifically together.

It was chaos.

But it was working.

"Fucking incredible, isn't it?"

A pause, and then my head turned slowly to see a gangly kid with vividly pinked hair staring at the mess. He glanced over at me to make sure I was listening and, when I was, moved back to gawking at the debris.

"I was born after Reclamation…" he began. I was feeling faintly amused by this very spontaneous and often unheard of stranger-to-strange conversation, but felt that neither of us were doing wrong.

"What was it like?"

I shot the pink boy an oblique look, not really wanting to continue the exchange, but then, at his expectant gaze, smiled thinly.

"Before Reclamation?" at his head nodding, "Oh….It was something like this," I said, motioning towards the ruins. "Rubble."

The kid gave me a confused look, and I had a feeling as I walked away that he was still staring at me, not quite knowing what to think of that statement. I didn't blame him—it was ultimately a strange and bitter thing to say, but what was the boy to expect from someone born before Reclamation?

Another intersection, cars zipping by without any thought process involved. I swiveled and started walking towards Westminster Bridge, the sidewalk deserted with only a few souls wearily pushing their way towards whatever destination appealed to them. I couldn't help but glance behind me, back at Big Ben, or the gap that was him. You adapt to it, granted. You realize that things change…Nevertheless, that gap sometimes seemed too empty to fill.

It had to have been twenty painfully long minutes before I reached Kensington, with cars parked on the curbs and the entire area seemingly bustling. Turning past one of the shops—teas, to be exact—I moved my way into the dark alley beside it and pushed forward. Within minutes I had seemingly vanished. There was a creak as I found the door and a groan as I shoved it open, and then I was gone.

Down the stairs my feet went--down those fitfully dark stairs, with the only light being that reflected off the pupils. I always got afraid that I was going to fall down a step, maybe jam my foot somehow, and roll down the rest of the stairs, sliding to a halt at the bottom, bleeding, humiliated and in pain. Due to the vivid imagery conjured, I habitually came down the stairs slowly, one hand braced against the wall, another in front of me, and feet carefully tiptoeing down each block with caution.

So far? No injuries.

But that wasn't to say I wouldn't hurt myself in the future.

There was a small grinding noise. My foot. I reined back and stood still for a moment, trying to keep myself from falling. Deep breath.

Then I began to move again.

In time, there was light at the end of the staircase. It definitely was a few floors before that light even began to glimmer, but it was there nevertheless. I picked up the pace a little bit, eyes now being able to see what was in front of them, and tapped my way to the source of sight.

The front door was open just a crack, just enough so that the light shining brightly beyond was obvious. I could've easily locked the door—I should've—but since when was someone going to barge into an old, piece of shit door in the middle of an alley, crawl their way down three stories of stairs in pitch black, and then open a door in the middle of nowhere?  
Answer?

No one.

Except myself, and…V.

But V was dead, so now it was only me.

Pushing the door open, I shuttered my eyes to avoid being completely blinded, and stood still for a moment, allowing the luminosity of yet another hallway to wash over me. The Shadow Gallery itself was a labyrinth within itself. There was this hallway, which I had begun to call the Primary, led in a honeycomb fashion around the living quarters of the Shadow Gallery and netted itself down to the Underground—the very bowels of London. The Secondary hall was where I had begun my transformation, had staggered out of a cell in a fabricated lie to a reality that suddenly didn't seem frightening any more. I tried not to visit the Secondary Hallway. There was too much pain in there for me to grasp peacefully, grasp sensibly.

The Third hallway was the best of the three—it was a dead end. Tailing quietly behind the Secondary Hallway, past the cell blocks, the interrogation room and the "chamber", the Third did nothing but eventually wind down to nonexistence. Though ultimately nothingness is something that all people find rather depressing, to me the Third was strangely soothing. There were no more secrets in it, no hidden doorways or walls I had to hack through. It was just—the end.

My eyes had finally adjusted to the sickly green lighting that bathed the Primary in a dull, yet abnormally bright glow and began to walk forward, slowly taking in the drab cement walls and hard floor with a warm familiarity. It was quiet, away from the hustle and bustle of the above. Only my feet were heard clicking on the ground. Nothing more.

Yet another door appeared to the right, sticking out bizarrely from the generic and dull cement wall like a hot pink summer dress in the middle of the Artic. For starters, the two doors—French style but devoid of glass—were a deep mahogany color, almost the hue of blood. Secondly, there were two beautiful brass door handles that looked as though they were just new. And last—the door knocker. It was the most absurd of all three characteristics of the door. For one, it _was_ a door knocker in the middle of bloody nowhere, and for two, it was a gold elephant's head, the knock itself clasped between the trunk and the mouth. It was very strange, and more and more I found myself wondering what the symbolism of the damn thing was. And then—ah—it appeared.

They say an elephant never forgets.

The owner of the Shadow Gallery never forgot, either.

I finally stopped reminiscing to reach for both of the handles. Giving them a gentle squeeze, I pushed open the doors and finally found myself completely and utterly relaxed as my feet moved themselves forward and landed on carpet.

Home.

My home.

The umbrella dropped to the ground, the shoes were kicked off, and the jacket, the only item I felt like hanging up, was gently placed on a coat rack not too far from the front door. Water dripped off it slowly, hitting the edge of a wood floor quietly.

I moved forward, feet shuffling gently on the carpet, and took in the sights. Nothing had changed since I left twelve hours ago…The piano was still in the center of the entire structure, the center of attention. Around it were the various rooms, some with doors, some without. The kitchen, the television room, the bedroom, the library, the extra hallway branching off to paintings and sculptures.

Yes, nothing had changed. Not at all. I began my usual march, peeking into each room and finally stepping into the kitchen, whereupon my eyes came upon an answering machine.

It was strange. There were no phones in this home. None at all. And yet, there was an answering machine.

Naturally one would assume that when there is an answering machine, there is a telephone address. And when there is a telephone address, there's an identity, something traceable.

That wasn't the case with this one, though. I figured that V had tapped into someone else's phone line and was stealing their signal, making this location thus unidentifiable. Two weeks ago I had glanced under the machine itself and found the phone address scribbled clumsily and with apparent confusion. It took me only a few minutes to memorize it. Afterwards, I told a few people that if they ever wanted to talk to me, the only thing they could do was leave a message.

I expected nothing on there—no one likes speaking to a computer, but to my surprise, a small "1" flashed in vivid red. I frowned, my brow furrowing, then slowly took a step forward and put a finger down on "Receive".

A moment's pause, then a robotic woman's voice rang out dully.

"You have: one new message. Delivered on: Friday, January third at six-seventeen."

I glanced down at my watch.

Hmmm. Just missed them.

The voice abruptly changed pitch, speed and delivery.

"This is Lieutenant Finch from the New Scotland Yard."

I blinked twice to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"Please call back as soon as possible, being the matter at hand it rather important. The number is—"

A finger raced down and stabbed at "end" suddenly.

Mine. The number itself was flashing underneath the message signal. I reached around frantically for a piece of paper and pencil and found myself scribbling the phone number on my hand in blue ink.

Taking a step backwards, I regarded my hand and the message machine warily, not quite knowing what to think.

The Grandfather clock chimed from the front room. I glanced behind me and then decided.

Since I didn't know what to think now, maybe I'll wait a few hours and then decide.

I pivoted on my heel and moved towards the Commons, and, beyond it, to the television.

I needed some mindless staring, anyway.


	4. Tête à tête

**  
(Disclaimer): Je ne possède pas « V pour Vendetta » ou n'importe lequel de lui est des caractères. Merci.**

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"_Every man has memories which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal to even his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind."_

Notes from Underground—Fyodor Dostoevky

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> "Hello?"

"How 'important' is this matter, really, Mr. Finch?"

Pause.

"Evey? Is that you?"

"The name is Effie, now, Mr. Finch. But how can I help you?"

There was another longer and more frozen pause over the line. Already, though, it spoke volumes. I had a feeling I was not going to like the news I would hear.

"There are some things," the Lieutenant began slowly, "that I believe I have to discuss with you."

Instantly I was on my guard. Granted, Finch and I regarded each other as uneasy allies, but I was still careful. I did not want to be prosecuted, did not want to somehow trip my way into a trap. I had done that many times before, and every single time I only bruised myself up to the point where there was barely recognition, mentally and maybe physically.

"Like what?"  
There was a faintly aggravated sigh from Finch. The man wasn't in the mood to play games, and usually I wasn't, either. But that night hadn't been ordinary. I had been plagued by monsters that I thought I had shoved back into the closet a long time ago.

Apparently, though, that was not the case.

A voice emanated from the opposite side of the connection. "You know, Evey, what and whom I am talking about."

This time I was the one who gave a beat of silence, mouth partially open as though to speak and hand clutching my mobile in a claw.

"Evey? Are you there?"  
I blinked twice, shuttering my eyes to regain normalcy, cleared my throat. Reflexively one of my hands went to my head, running through the fuzz that was becoming hair. It felt strangely comforting, that gesture I usually did when nervous. It calmed me down.

"I'm here, Mr. Finch."

"Well?"

A small flicker of movement darted into my peripheral vision. It was only the telly, which I had turned to mute. Nevertheless, for some reason it caught my attention, the odd and distorted fading, jumping and amplifying of the light across the screen as it created images. Normal, yes, but strangely enough it gave me resolve.

I firmly began to believe I was going mad. What kind of person becomes calm and makes their mind up after staring at a television?

I turned away from the television and braced one hand under my elbow, eyes roving the front room.

"When, and where?"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Simplicity is something very difficult to come across in life nowadays, and yet, as I sat, perched on the metal café chair, legs crossed and hand cradling a mug of tea, I couldn't help but feel somewhat—simple. At ease.

Maybe it's true, then. All you need to make things better is a cup of tea.

…Maybe.

It was the night after my phone call with Mr. Finch. The arrangement was a simple one—meet at the Felix café across from where Evey Hammond had lived. I didn't need to say much beyond that—Finch had understood almost instantly what I was talking about. Which was good.

There was a motion on my left. Instead of swiveling my head complete to observe what I knew was coming, I merely used my eyes to watch, allowing them to follow the movement as it drew across the front door, dodged clumsily around a couple of chairs and finally came to rest in front of me, giving a somewhat perturbed glance around before pulling out the other steel chair and sitting down—though slowly, as if old and weary of the world.

Which, ultimately, Mr. Finch was.

Our greeting was a respectful silence. Finch gave me, the cup of tea, and the table a look before speaking. When he finally opened his mouth, it sounded as though he had just recovered from a cold.

"Are you drinking Earl Grey?"

A bizarre conversation starter, maybe, but this was going to be a bizarre conversation.

I shook my head.

"Orange spice." I replied, giving a closed smile. "I outgrew Earl a long time ago."

The good detective cocked his head curiously at the statement, then shrugged.

"I'm not much of a tea drinker, anyway."

He quickly flagged down a waiter—pimply kid who clearly had not grown into his skin yet—and asked for coffee

A bit of dead nothing dropped on the table, covering the area in a sort of conversation fog. For a moment it clouded both our vision, causing the air to seem unbearably hot and my chair to be as though on fire, but then…just as fast as it came, the fog drifted, moving to some other table and to another conversation, ready to make everything more difficult to talk, listen and see through. I began to peel myself away from the chair, leaning forward, uncrossing my legs and placing my hands flat on the table. Finch glanced up from glaring at the floor in front of him and blinked. I kept my face blank.

"What is it, Mr. Finch, that you want to talk about?"

He sighed, face wrinkling into something resembling distaste, sadness and discomfort, before leaning forward as well, hands grasping at the edge of the table.

"The recent," Finch began slowly, "departure of our government has left this country in a rather precarious situation. We are unstable. Though it's been eight weeks, there's still looting, still some mayhem. It might not be obvious to you, Evey, but to someone who works within the police force it's a very big thing."

I nodded quietly at the statement, letting the words revolve around my head, letting them sink in through the filter and become something understandable. It occurred to me that obviously he wouldn't be telling me this without a motive, and quickly I started to talk.

"What do you want me to do about your problem?" I said, giving an exasperated bark of laughter. "I'm no one, Mr. Finch. I'm, I'm—"

"You're a survivor, Evey Hammond." Finch interrupted, words sharp. "You're someone who lived through hell and came back mind intact. That is what makes you someone. That's why I need you.

"What do I want you to do?" The man paused, mouth pursed in a slash and eyes frustrated, "I want you to listen," Finch tapped the table for emphasis, "to what I have to say. I want you to tell me if it makes any sense...If somehow, it could fix this mess of a country."

Taken aback, I tilted away in my chair and regarded Finch carefully. He looked tired. Old. Sick of living. The man had lived through more than me—granted, he had been in more shit than me, but he still had seen more. He had seen V. Knew what he had planned. He was valuable, Finch. He was one of those few people who knew what I knew.

And right now Finch was looking at me pleadingly, desperately.

I thought about what he had said for a moment.

Maybe it was more than a moment, but it seemed shorter.

And then made my descision.

"Fine, Finch," I said, voice quiet and for once not using the formal address I normally gave the detective. "I'll listen to you. What is it you have to discuss?"  
Finch seemed shocked at my calm demeanor, shocked that I was willing to listen. But he was a cop. In seconds the face became blank, a gray slate.

"I have a lot to talk about, Evey. Quite a lot."


	5. Liability

Last disclaimer: Do not/have not/never will own V for Vendetta. This disclaimer goes for all of following (hopefully) chapters. I am simply a sad, pathetic girl trying to (and failing) to write a fanfiction. 

Also: Thank you very, very, very, very much to GoddessLaughs, ShadowCat, Zil and Naphatali Phoenix for reviewing my story. Without the reality that there were people actually reading this story that--for once--did not involve the romance between Evey Hammond and the terrorist V really made my day, and I believe compelled my to write more. Thank you so much for your words.

* * *

**_"Nails and boards are not, strictly speaking, means of a box. They are only materials for making it. Even the saw and hammer are means only when they are employed in some actual making. Otherwise, they are tools, or potential means."_**

_--_John Dewey, _Habits and Will_

* * *

V had once told me that a man is only as deep as his desperation. Naturally, I was confused by the statement and didn't--like many things V told me, riddle or not--understand it. But now, sitting across from the police chief of the New Scotland Yard, I realized what V had really meant. And in Finch's case... 

The man was desperate. It was obvious in the way he moved, the way he leaned himself forward in the chair, and even the way he spoke. Finch was under an enormous (or uncomfortable) amount of stress, but he wasn't going to give it up easily.

"What do you know about this government?"

_Everything_.

"Nothing."

Finch gave a wan smile. "Then you're just like everyone else."

I cocked my head curiously. "And how is that?"

The smile vanished. "You're not willing to tell the truth."

Abruptly my feelings of curiosity were gone, replaced by something resembling anger. I leaned forward on the table and said quietly: "Look, I'm not here to be ridiculed. What do you want, Finch?"

Eric Finch blinked slowly at the soft menace in my voice, but seemed to not be taken aback by it, instead continuing to speak.

"There's dissent within the system. Norsefire isn't gone. Though your man chopped off the head, that head can still bite."

Finch moved forward, eyes suddenly grave. "Evey--they're wondering."

I shifted uncomfortably, unnerved by the gaze. "Wondering what?"

Finch focused on me intently. "If the rumors of a predessor to V exists. If it is true."

"Why?"

The detective leaned back, exhaling audibly. "Because if such a person exists, they present a liability."

At a confused glance from me, Finch's lips pinched shut in a somewhat exasperated look and he once again pushed himself forward, placing his hands on the table, palms down.

"Your man--"

"His name was V", I interuptted defensively.

Finch dropped a shoulder, a signal of mild irritation, but complied.

"..._V_ created an image. He created a figure that average people respected, and the government feared. You must understand, Evey, the importance of November the 5th."

Memory snapped like a projector in the back of my head. I pushed it away, trying to focus.

"Of course."

Finch tapped a finger on the table for emphasis, "Then you understand that never, _ever_, in the history of England--or maybe the world, for that matter--did such an enormous group of people assemble as peacefully as that night. _Never_. And the fact alone that they came together without weapons, banners or words means that they trusted V.

"That type of trust, Evey, is simply unheard of with people. They didn't put faith in a man they simply saw on television. Of course they didn't--you worked for the BTN--obviously it was a stage made by Sutler for a puppet show every night. But V had changed them. He made them question government without fear." Finchs eyes suddenly glittered faintly with something that appeared to be a grudging respect. I watched, fascinated, as he continued.

"To have a figure even resembling V, Evey, is dangerous." Finch raised his eyebrows as he looked at me before focusing down on his hand.

"For whom?" I asked, curious once again.

"For you," Finch replied, looking back up. "Even with Sutler, Creedy, Dascomb and the others gone, there are party sympathizers. And they're rich men, Ms. Hammond. Rich, poweful, angry men and women. They receive word of someone who contributed to their downfall, they'll want revenge." Finchs eyes grew still. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

Death. My death.

Wordlessly--slowly--I nodded. Under the table, though, I knew that my hands were shaking.

The detective once again moved in his chair, though this time it was to grab at tea cup and take a quick sip. The cup landed back on the table with a clink. Finch gave a curt jerk of his head as the waiter came with his soup--previously ordered--and a roll.

More silence.

Finch gingerly tried a spoonful then, noticing that I had not ordered anything, raised his eyebrows.

"Did you order anything?"

I shook my head, and for the first that that morning gave a small--albeit polite--smile. "No."

At a somewhat pointed look from Finch--which I could only assume mean "you're bloody thin enough"--I explained.

"Had a scone this morning."

Finch bobbed his head in understanding. "Ah."

Silence ensued momentarily, but unlike earlier when it had been tense and anxious, we were obviously both more at ease. Finch turned his attention to his soup and I stared at my tea cup introspectively.

Finch's words, or, rather, warning, sat in the pit of my stomach, slowly uncoiling itself and banging against my rib cage.

Evey was dead.

...But did that mean Effie was soon to be as well?

"Evey."

My eyes flickered up, trying to snatch back at reality. Finch had rested the soup spoon inside the bowl and moved the meal to the right. Now braced again the table, his face was--once again--very grave. Finch waited, unmoving and making sure I was paying attention, before speaking again. Slowly. Delibrately.

"I have something I have to ask of you."

Instantly on guard, I watched the detective carefully.

"What?"

Finch opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"There are possibilities of public trials..."

"For whom?" I questioned sharply, alarmed.

A nervous tic came at the corner of Finch's eyelid. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

_He was lying._ But why? And for whom?

"...For a variety of undesirables." The detective finished. It was a diplomatic answer, but I had to grip the table to control the urge not to bolt from my seat. I knew what Finch was asking, but the reality was I didnt think I was up for it.

"Evey... " Finch's face was stretched, "there's a possibility that you might be asked to the stand as a witness." His gaze--which had been averted--moved back, looking like something between desperation and uncertainty. "Are you willing to comply?"

Different emotions from all sides of the spectrum came together at once. Fear feebly scratched out at self-preservation, which, in a frenzy, bulled its way past common sense. Consience tried to stop all of them, but to no avail.

Confusion was the most evident, though. I could feel surprise and a deep feeling of misunderstanding boiling into one simple sentence.

"I...I don't know." I said, stuttering on the words as they choked their way out.

A part of me wanted to nod enthusiastically, to lean forward and say, "Of course! Of course!"

But the rest was uncertain. Unsure, nervous...displeased with the suddenness that the question had been dropped. I should've seen it coming, but for some reason had been to preoccupied to realize that it had been the entire purpose of this conversation in the first place.

Finch remained still, trying to guage for my reaction. He took a deep breath and looked as though ready to speak before we both jumped at the sound of a buzzer. The detective cursed, pulling away from the table and glancing down at what I assumed to be a pager. Another expletive, though uttered quietly. Without further ado, Finch bolted up from the table and threw eight pounds on the table. He gave an apologetic glance.

"Emergency."

Still bewildered by the turn of events, I could only nod.

Finch looked somewhat relieved. "Thank you. I'll contact you later about this whole...mess."

I was partially out of my chair, skirting around the table and trying to catch up. He couldn't leave _now. _Not with all these questions bouncing their way through my skull. Raising my voice somewhat, I threw out a question, deperate for any type of answer. "When?"

Finch was already moving towards the door, but he noted the nervousness in my voice, and gave a look over his shoulder, stopping momentarily.

"...Soon." Finch finally said, after a beat of silence. "Please just consider what I told you."

...And he was gone.

Out the door.

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.

In a daze, I moved back to my seat, oblivious to the glances I was getting. The waiter--Pimple Boy--came by and noted the sudden absense of my companion, and frowned.

"Is that all for you, miss?"

My gaze was fixed on the door, but absent-mindedly I picked up my cup of tea and lifted it to the side.

"Refill, please."


End file.
